She studied his earnest expression, not knowing how to respond, so she changed the subject. “Tell me about your papa.”
His brow arched, disappearing beneath the brim of his derby hat. “He was very kind and intelligent. A lot like Alma, in fact. He read books, wrote papers. He was a professor. Do you understand?” She nodded and he went on. “He was nothing like Robert, my stepfather…”
He continued to speak, but Francesca had trouble parsing through the words, so instead, she watched his animated face. His eyes danced with a sentiment she couldn’t quite place, and the intonation in his voice though friendly, felt… Passionate was the word. This man had a fire in his belly, and not the kind that came with too much drink.
He stopped. “I really should practice the Italian I’ve learned, but I’m not very good at it. I’m talking too fast, aren’t I?”
“Sì. I know nothing of what you say.”
He laughed nervously. “Serves me right for rambling on.”
She caught his eye and held it a beat too long, quickly looking away. Fritz Brauer seemed truly kind, but he was a man, and she could not forget what men did to their women. And yet, her lips stretched slowly into a smile. She didn’t know what to make of him, or his chivalry, or the way he listened to her intently, but he had made her smile more times in the last couple of days than she had in months.
He returned her smile, his eyes crinkling around the edges.
And at that moment, something fluttered inside her like a moth’s wings, beating toward the light.
25
After a couple of weeks of failed attempts at conversation, many mistakes but also some successes, Francesca had learned the routines of her new home. With Claire, she shared a neat and comfortable bedroom off the kitchen with two single beds, modest navy quilts, and a window overlooking the street. An electric lamp sat on a table between the beds, and a painting of a country manor with flourishing gardens was framed on the wall above it. The tension in her shoulders had begun to ease, if only slightly. Still, her nights were plagued with nightmares of home. At times, she thought it would never end, that she would never become an American and continue to float between worlds, tormented by her past. Yet morning would dawn, and she’d awaken in a fine bed, far from her father, and she would believe in, and be grateful for, her new life all over again.
As she placed hot brioche, a crystal bowl of butter, and some strawberry jam on the breakfast tray for Mrs. Lancaster, she focused on the conversation going on around her. The rhythm of the English language had begun to sound less abrupt and filled with broken syllables. Though it didn’t possess the music of her own language, it had started to feel less awkward on her tongue. Most of the household staff were immigrants, too—Janie and Charles from England, Claire from France—so their accents made their English more difficult to decipher than Alma’s and Fritz’s. The staff assumed she couldn’t follow their conversations, and they grew lax around her, even when they were clearly discussing her work habits, her mannerisms—her differences. She understood far more than they realized. And she dedicated herself to learning more. Still, by day’s end, her head ached as she tried to parse out the words she knew from the incoherent noise.
Francesca cast a quick look at Claire and Mrs. Cheedle, who had been gossiping like a pair of hens since they sat down to breakfast.
Mrs. Cheedle laid her spoon on the edge of her porridge dish. “I’ve never seen a single photograph of him or even a memento. If her husband passed away, wouldn’t she at least have saved something of his? If, for no other reason, for her son’s sake.”
Francesca bent over the sink to scrub the porridge pot, wondering who they could be talking about now.
“What about the painting in the dining room?” Claire pointed out. “Maybe that’s him.”
“Or maybe that’s her father,” Mrs. Cheedle said, looking at Claire over the rim of her cup. “He looks a bit too much like the mistress to be her husband.”
Francesca paused briefly in her washing—they were talking about Mrs. Lancaster.
“Maybe.” Claire clucked her tongue in thought and drew a long sip of tea from her cup. “They could have divorced, though given her station, that would be the scandal of the century.”
“Perhaps that’s why they moved from England,” Mrs. Cheedle offered.
Claire’s voice dropped and she leaned in closer. “I don’t know, but there must be something that makes her so angry all the time.”
Both women chuckled softly. Francesca refrained from commenting but was glad to see she wasn’t the only one who thought Mrs. Lancaster was wretched. She wondered if there was any truth to their musings, that Mrs. Lancaster had been divorced and scorned, left England when the scandal broke. It was as good a theory as any, though Mrs. Lancaster didn’t seem the type to get divorced. Perhaps something tragic had happened to her husband and she was lonely, that was all.
“Are we talking about the mistress again?” Janie, the lady’s maid, dropped something in the wastebasket on her way through the kitchen and, with a nasty smile, laid a stack of Mr. Lancaster’s dirty dishes atop the pile Francesca had already washed. Francesca smiled back sweetly, not wanting to be reported for being either difficult or shirking her duties—something Janie had tried to do already even in Francesca’s short time there.
“Never you mind,” Mrs. Cheedle said dismissively and gulped down the last of her coffee. “Better take the breakfast tray up to the mistress before she rings the bell.”
Francesca dried her hands on a towel and placed a small rose bud on Mrs. Lancaster’s tray next to the water glass.
Janie arched her brow. “What’s the flower for?”
“It’s pretty, and it make mistress happy.”
“When did you ever talk to the mistress?” Janie picked up the tray, careful to keep it level to prevent the wobbling teacup from tipping.
She shrugged. “I hope it make her happy.” Francesca gave the maid her back and busied herself with cleaning the last of the dishes. Janie was really insufferable, and for no good reason.
“I’m not sure anything makes Mrs. Lancaster happy,” Janie mumbled.
“Janie!” Claire said, taking the pot off the stove and pouring boiling water down the sink drain. “Better get on with it, or you’ll see just how unhappy she can be!”